Surviving the Bus Ride from Hell!

SURVIVING THE BUS RIDE FROM HELL!

When I die, I’m not afraid of going to hell—I rode public transit while attending college.

Old Route 55 to Weber State University and back did more than prepare one for an eternity of hellfire and damnation; it helped one get there a little sooner.

One particular ride, while headed home from school in a torrential rainstorm, we noticed the windshield was fogged up. The bus driver stopped, wiped it down, and then adjusted a little fan above the glass so it would blow air on to the windshield to keep it clear. The driver also had to open her window so the outside air could be drawn in to assist the fan. This should have tipped all of us on the bus as to what kind of ride we were in for.

Our chauffeur hadn’t driven one mile when she had to pull over again, step outside the bus, and unstick the windshield wipers. By then, some of us were feeling a renewed interest in the "after life."

Things went downhill from there. After we finally put a few miles behind us, a lady sitting near the front could feel water dripping on her head. Yep, you guess it, the roof of the bus was leaking.

It wasn’t just a little leak, either, and we could see this lady was about to open her umbrella. Now, I’m not a superstitious person, but why ask for more trouble than we already had? Much to my relief, we talked her out of opening her umbrella indoors.

By now most of the others on the bus had closed their eyes and begun reciting the Lord’s Prayer. Me, I had to go looking for more things to worry about.

Examining the interior of that prehistoric vehicle, I noticed that not only were the side windows cracked but there was cardboard stuck between the sliding glass pieces in each section. After pointing this out to my fellow riders it was decided we’d be better off not knowing the reasoning behind this good old American ingenuity.

The peak of our worries came when our driver only laughed response to a question concerning the tread on the tires.

It was about this time, with rain dripping on us, the windshield steaming up, and no assurance about the tires, that the man sitting to my left confessed he was agnostic, but since the time we had left the bus stop he had learned to pray and hoped there was something to this life-after-death stuff.

Needless to say, I made it to my stop alive. As for those who still had a way to go? I don’t know how they made out, for you see, I drove the next day.

A Few Observations

The other day, while visiting my parents, CBS ran a commercial for a program it was airing in the coming days: HEAVEN. Everyone talks about it, but do you know how to get there? We’ll tell you how. Tune into CBS on blah, blah, blah.

Dang! All these years wasted going to church meetings, paying my tithes, donating my time to teach classes and perform other responsibilities, when all I had to do was tune in to CBS. And to think my grandfather used to say that CBS stood for Certified Bull S_ _ _. Bet he’s in Hell right now saying to himself, “If only I’d watched more T.V!”

Who came up with the term “a pair of pants?” Nobody wears a pair (two similar things used together) of pants. We wear a pant with a pair of legs, but that’s far different than wearing two pants (with or without legs, although, what would be the point to wearing one or more pants if they didn’t have legs?) at the same time.

We don’t wear a pair of shirts. We wear a shirt with a pair of sleeves. So how come we wear a “pair of pants?” It’s bugging the heck out of me.

In the news this morning there was piece on a six-foot alligator that was captured last night at a metro bus stop in a very busy part of town. Oh there was footage of the gator, its capture, interviews with the trappers, etc. But nobody addressed the most important issue of all, WHERE DID HE COME FROM?!

Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad the gator was captured before any humans were hurt by him but, WHERE DID HE COME FROM?!

I doubt that he was an only gator in the pond, WHERE DID HE COME FROM?!

Where Mr. Gator was waiting for a bus are hotels, shops, restaurants, a huge water park with a lake (hmmmm, that’s a scary thought, isn’t it?), and Universal Studios just down the road—the street where they lassoed the alligator was Universal Boulevard! We’re talking people, people everywhere—we’re the number one tourist destination in the United States and one of the top destinations world-wide. Didn’t anybody involved with the capturing of this animal wonder, WHERE DID HE COME FROM?!

I work just down the road from that bus stop; WHERE DID HE COME FROM?!

I’ve driven my motorcycle past there a time or two (mating season is coming upon us and gators get a little cranky during that time—been known to attack moving vehicles); WHERE DID HE COME FROM?!

As many people know, I grew up in a household of males, 4 sons, no sisters. The former Mrs. Bagley and I have 3 sons, no daughters. So here I am, married to the best thing that’s ever happened to me and she has two young daughters, ages 4 and 5. I am so out of my element!

I’ve been invited to more tea and princesses parties than, well, I never have until now. My car still has Yosemite Sam hanging from my mirror but the console and back seats have pink and powder blue barrettes and pony tail bands (I think that's what they're called) all over them.

We have Cinderella, Murielle (just learned it's Ariel not Murielle--I believe that's what's known as a "case in point.") and other princess coloring books lying around the house. We have lotion with glitter in it, pens with fluffy, furry stuff hanging out of the tops, Barbies, and I hear lots of “Doug isn’t that _____ [fill in the blank with just about anything] beautiful?” No footballs, basketballs, Lincoln Logs, tanks, plastic cowboys, Tonka Trucks and Dozers, etc, to be found.

A few weeks ago, I found myself in a store, by myself, shopping for a birthday present for a 4-year-old girl. What the heck do I know about buying gifts for 4-year-old girls? I can’t even begin to describe the awkwardness I felt as I perused the snow globes with princesses in them (do you see a recurring theme here?), girls T-shirts and shorts (yes, with princesses on them), tea sets, dolls, etc. I ended up buying her a dining set of plates, silver wear, and cups all with three Disney princesses on them.

Put me in a store where there’s W.W. Whatever Wrestler toys, G.I. Joes and/or plastic army men, plastic sub-machine guns, plastic horses with saddles and plastic cowboys to ride them, along with rifles and the like, and I can shop, no need for any assistance at all. I know what to do.

It’s happened. Oh my gosh it’s happened! I’m officially old. The other day my brothers and I were visiting. My sons were there. Some time into our discussions of this and that and whatnot, youngest son blurted out, “Just shoot me when I get to the age where I’m discussing liver spots on my arms!”

Up to that point I hadn’t realized we’d been talking about my older brother’s high PSI (think prostate, folks) count, clogged arteries, sun and age spots. Of course, I chimed in about my maladies as did younger brother.

Now, that’s exactly what I swore I’d never do when I was youngest son’s age, and as I recall, when overhearing my parents discussing their ailments with their siblings, I said about the same thing that my son said to us--my how time is an all mighty equalizer.

Well, it's time to end this rambling and get to bed—I need my sleep so I can think of more silliness about which to write (Whoa, I almost sounded Shakespearian there, didn’t I?).

Why Just One Day a Year?

What’s up with this one day of the year celebration for mothers? Shouldn’t we celebrate our mothers every day of the year, if for no other reason than they gave birth to us? Listen, I was there for all three births of my sons. It’s not called labor for nothing—I often wonder if women really new ahead of time the pain and strain to their body that child birth is if they’d go ahead and get pregnant anyway.

What's amazing to me is that many women, after going through the stress, inconvenience, and pain of pregnancy and childbirth, choose to have more babies. After the first child, most men would rush right out to the nearest clinic and get themselves snipped. “Ain’t no way this is going to happen again!” most of us guys would whine.

My own mother came as near to death as one can get during childbirth when I was born (I was a trouble maker right from the get go—I was also just an ounce under 10 lbs, which I’m sure didn’t make mom feel any better). I was a placenta previa and my mom almost hemorrhaged to death bringing me into this world. Both of her doctors told her it was a power beyond theirs that saved us both.

If that isn’t enough of a reason to pay tribute to my mother every day of the year, she also, along with dad of course, raised 4 very rowdy, rebellious, stubborn boys. Believe me, as I think back on some of the things my brothers and I did, some of the pranks, mischief, and trouble we got into, my mom deserves a medal, maybe even a statue.

I know there must be many other good mothers out there who also deserve accolades for the sacrifices, prayers, and worrying they did over their children, trying to instill in them and guide them down the paths of virtue, morality, honor, etc., as their they grew to adulthood.

Some mothers have to do this alone, without help from their children’s father. Either through divorce, abandonment, whatever, they’re left trying to not only raise their children to be good and decent, but they’re left doing it while they also struggle to put food on the table, clothes on their children’s backs, and shelter over their heads, sometimes working two jobs to accomplish this. They ask for no handouts, no acknowledgement, or rewards from society. For them their reward is watching the fruits of their labor come to fruition--their children grow up to be good and decent human beings.

Because of the economic downturn, many mothers who are now grandmothers and great grandmothers continue to give and sacrifice for their children. They keep their grandkids and great grandkids for free while the children’s mother and/or father work, helping them save a little money by not having to pay for daycare.

Many mothers don’t even like the holiday that’s set aside for them. In their words, “Why should I get acknowledgement for something I’m supposed to do?”

Other’s feel like, “Hey, if you can’t appreciate the things I do for you every day of the year don’t insult me with a once a year celebration.”

Yet for others, the Mothers’ Day holiday makes them feel incompetent, inferior, and failures as they sit in church and hear talks from people speaking of their perfect, super moms, who did everything right in raising them.

So why do we only celebrate mothers just once a year? It seems to me that most of us should celebrate them, honor them, and show our appreciation for all they have and do for us every day of the year. And the best way we can do this is to be the adults they hoped and prayed we’d turn out to be.

So to all the mothers in the world, I salute you.

And mom, I love you.